


Last Thing in the Morning

by certainlyjim



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, M/M, Or not, Post-Skyfall, Pre-Slash, Sleepiness, Unreliable Narrator, caring bond, no sex sorry lol, q is sleepy and disgruntled with bond's antics, who knows with james bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certainlyjim/pseuds/certainlyjim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q finally manages to get home after an extra long day(s) at work and James Bond decides he really needs to break into Q's flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Thing in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: unbeta'd, no brit pick srry lol, and sorry for the abuse of commas haha ヾ(｡﹏｡)ﾉﾞ

There's a trilling coming from behind Q, and he rolls away from it in his bed, and yet the loud thing refuses to quiet, which means he grouses to himself and burrows into his sleep warm pillow. This after a long seventy hour work day, this quite loud trilling; he kicks at his thin summer sheets, loosing them from his upper-body, but he refuses to move again— until the trilling recommences, and finally he deigns a groggy pain filled blink to wakefulness, the sort of pain one receives wherewithal one has not gotten enough rest. 

He flips over, arm hanging over his bed for a moment before he twitches and his hand seeks out the blasted noise. He fumbles around his plastic alarm, that he'd gotten at a corner store two years ago, makes his clunky watch thud to the carpet, and hears his chap stick roll away, before a glancing blow of his fingers jerk him to grab at his mobile before he pushes it out of reach, too. 

His eyes have shut involuntarily, as he brings the mobile to his ear, 'This is Q.' 

'Fine morning isn't, Quartermaster.' 

Q, if possible, slumps from his tension, 'Good bye, 007.' 

'Have you not had your morning tea yet?' 

Q takes the mobile from his ear, pausing when he hears the fool start to talk, 'Bit early for this isn't it, Bond?' 

He hears Bond almost hum in the phone, and that bloody half risen smirk of his, 'For what? I have yet to ask you of anything.' 

'Go on, then.' Q says, spreading boneless across his bed and sheets until he's spread eagle'd, waiting for whatever it is that Bond has done to muck up rest of his day. 

Q hears a faint ripping noise from the mobile, before, 'Ah, well, by any chance might you have a pinch of chloroform?' 

Q's eyes snap open and he jerks up into a sitting position, 'Are you in my flat, James Bond.' 

'Do you have a truly horrid green vase by the window?' 

Q curses, fumbling out of bed, stumbling in the dark to his closed door, and jerking it open, mobile still pinned to his ear. There in the blurred darkness of his quaint living room kneels James Bond, the dastardly secret agent man himself, 'Bloody shit!' 

He hears bond's voice at his ear as he hears it in person, 'I see you are as prudent here as you are at work.' 

Bond ends the call, slipping the mobile into his suit, and Q just lets his hand fall to the side, much too sleep deprived to even extrapolate that Bond is in his living room. He blinks, squints— he suddenly realizes his glasses are most likely with the rest of his scattered nightstand possessions— and de-blurrifies the dark lump at bond's feet. 

His voice may be a tad higher as he asks, 'Why are there two of you.' 

Bond finally decides to stand, tugging at his suit lapels and walking over the lumpy person to stand in front of Q. Bond might give him a long glance over or he may be staring Q down, Q can't really tell with all the inconvenience of nearsightedness. Here Q glances down at himself in time to become horrified that he's in but his Star Trek pants, just as Bond: 

'A boxer shorts bloke after all.' that damn smirk alights on his lips, as he shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, as if he's content to stand there forever. 

'Nnnnshit, no I’m not dealing with you in my pants.' and Q turns on his heel, slams the door in Bond's pretty little smirking face.  

The door creaks as he leans against it, horrible embarrassment fighting for dominance with a sleepy disbelief and an inadequate amount of anger. He makes himself take a breath, and then another, before he pushes off and heads towards his nightstand. Squinting in the dark, unwilling to flip his light on, he shuffles his feet a bit, before he bumps into the roll of chap stick, and then eventually the frames of his glasses. He hurriedly slips them on, snagging them in his bedhead, and turns to his decrepit dresser for some trousers. He hops into those, before he paces to the door and flings it open. 

The lumpy person is still on his floor; however, Bond is in kitchen, says the shoddy light splaying from it and the puttering about he can hear. He veritably tiptoes to the person on his floor and peers down at them: a dark skinned burly kind of man with a greying beard and close cropped hair, and he is in fact not dead. Q does not have a dead body on his floor. Done pursuing the lumpy man on his floor, Q steps around his red sagging couch and the dull brown carpet it sits on to the old wood floor peeking out from underneath it. He sees Bond systematically opening and closing his cabinets, poking around his pantry and under his sink. 

Q crosses his arms in vexation, as Bond, 'You don't.' 

''Don't' what.' 

'Have any chloroform.' Bond closes the cabinet door under his sink, drifts paces closer to Q, coming to a stop besides the humming refrigerator that almost appears preordained with Bond's smooth and solid body language, as he adjusts his blue tie. 

Q is disgusted, and throws a hand up at Bond as he shoulders past him, on his way to the stove; although Bond doesn't appear to want to be shouldered as he sidesteps, and Q's bare shoulder rubs up against his chest, his very warm chest, 'Bond, I’m not some nineteenth century surgeon inflicting my limited knowledge of chemicals on unsuspecting patients.' 

Out of the corner of his eye he spots Bond turn fully towards him as he tugs open a cabinet, picking out a deep blue mug and a two bags of mint tea. He flicks on the stove and Bond half-steps closer, peering at the tea bags strewn on the counter, leans back as Q fills his dented kettle, and then offers, 'Sleeping pills?' 

Q stares forward, drilling maps of circuitry into the grains of the wood of his cabinets, and mentally reciting code, quite exasperated he is, 'I’d thought you a higher caliber of spy, Mr. Bond.' 

Bond approximates a quiet huff from somewhere behind him, going an easy circuit around Q; from Q's right and the refrigerator, to his left and the heating kettle does Bond step, hands again making home in his pockets, 'A shot in the dark, Quartermaster.' 

'A poor one at that.' Q fiddles with the kettle lid, while attempting to rub sleep from an eye, 'Why is it you need such things.' 

Q can't hear Bond behind him, hence his starting when Bond speaks directly behind him, 'The man occupying your floor— a mark.' 

Q stretches his neck to the left, bringing a hand to knead at it, 'Shall I indulge you, then? Why is there a mark in m—' 

The cool touch of Bond's rough finger slides down a low spot on his back and he stiffens, mouth closing, as he half turns to ask Bond what the hell he's doing, 'You've a scar, here, on your back.' 

Bond's sole finger is joined by a second and they twirl on his skin making goose-flesh crawl up Q's arms and down his neck, 'A childhood injury.' 

Rather, he lies. 

Bond's fingers pet at the scar a moment more, before they leave him bereft, 'Rather reckless of a child to get shot in the back.' 

Q doesn't answer his ugly challenge; instead, picks up his whistling kettle and pours the steaming water into his mug, before taking both tea bags and steeping them slowly as he turns to face Bond, who leans languid on his blue kitchen table. In the dark shadows of the overhead kitchen light, his body is a strong line, his eyes catch any shifting light, and he is silent. Q figures a glare won't make it through the smudgy light, and so walks past Bond to one of the two high backed chairs at the table. He sets his mug down with a dull thud, and is sat, chair creaking with age, as the table creaks with use when he leans on it, fingers running over the imperfections and tarnishes in the wood and paint. Bond is now to his left, still facing the cooling stove, and Q looks up from his tea and studies the lumpy man taking up space in his living room. 

'You know… I don't think MI6 knows you're back in the country.' Q had not. 

'No.' 

'Come now, 007, you're mission was for Russia; the man in my flat is clearly not Russian.' Q sips at his mint tea, and sighs as the warmth travels down and in. 

When Q turns to look up at Bond, possibly to goad him into saying words, Bond is already twisted to face him, a heavy thigh resting on the table, and Bond's very unreadable face, studying him. 

'I happened to be about in Mexico, when I ran afoul of Mr. Miguel.' Bonds says, and his hand resting over his thigh moves, starts prodding at Q's mug of tea, until Q moves it out of Bond's reach by taking another warm sip of it. 

'And you decided to book a flight and bring a dandy fellow to my flat in London, did you?' Q narrows his eyes as he sets the mug of tea as far from Bond's hands as he can, which means the far side of the rather small table. 

'Unfortunately,' here Bond stands, one hands still in a pocket, and walks around Q to the opposite side of the table, where the mug is sat. His hand reaches for the mug and his fingers circle the rim once, before pushing it to Q. 'I had no choice in the matter. Mr. Miguel is quite the tenacious man to encounter.' 

Before Q can shove his hand off, Bond takes his hand back into his pocket, and Q, 'He gave chase?' 

Bond who had been staring Mr. Miguel down, turns back to Q with a small down turning of the lips, 'His bosses took a disliking to me for 'interfering' in their assuredly most important work.' 

The suffocating layer of sarcasm is too much to even un-peal the layers of meaning in Bond's words at this early of a moment, so Q ignores it for his own well-being, and cranes his neck to see the lumpy Mr. Miguel sprawled on his floor, still very much unconscious, 'I fail to see how any of these events led you breaking into  _my_  flat in the middle of the night.' 

Bond's hand still rests on the table, and he cocks his head as the rest of him is still, 'I needed a safe place to stow him while I went about.' 

Q waits for him to finish his sentence, and Bond just stares back at him, a slow quirk of an eyebrow and a curling of the mouth before Q gives up waiting the bastard out, 'Rubbish, there are tens of MI6 sanctioned safe houses all around the city, and you choose the one that isn't.' 

Bond withdraws his hand from the rickety blue table, turning slightly to fiddle with one of the glass doors of the ancient china cabinet behind him, 'yours was the closest.' 

Q turns in his chair, bare feet sliding against the grain of the wood underfoot, 'Would you stop th—' 

'I would keep a certain amount of attention on Mr. Miguel, Q, it's past time for him to come to.' Bond interrupts, and Q starts, glancing back to Mr. Miguel, in sync with the click of the cabinet door opening, and a low moan from Mr. Miguel. 

He partially is stood from his chair, as Bond clicks the cabinet closed and hands him one of his ceramic bowls, 'Cold water will do quite well. Might you have a tarp or other such thing?' 

'What— Q says, fingers brushing over Bond's as Bond duck's his head a degree, catching Q's eye, the bowl betwixt them, 'No, ah, not at the moment. What, what did you say you needed a tarp for again?' 

'A shame, that.' Bond says, hands falling from the bowl as he turns and somewhat like a large mammalian predator prowls to Mr. Miguel, who still spouts the odd noise of coming to. 

Bond’s hands are back in his pockets as he looms over Mr. Miguel, silhouette darker away from the light atop the kitchen sink, and then he is stepping on Mr. Miguel's throat with a dapper shined shoe. 

Q scuttles forward a bit with a hiss, 'Bond.  _Bond_! What are you doing.' 

Bond looks up from suffocating Mr. Miguel with his shoe, an almost blasé slack look to his face, 'Hm? Why I’m putting him back down for a kip.' 

Q fights the very strong urge to go to his bedroom, close the door, and pass out again, like he'd done three hours ago. He grips the bowl tightly, and just as tightly, asks, 'Why do you need water and a tarp.' 

'Ah, I’m going to dig out Mr. Miguel's tracker, of course.' Bond leans forward, never having looked up to talk to Q, keeping his balance as Mr. Miguel feebly thrashes against his foot. 

'Right, of course.' Q nods, turning the bowl over in his hands and walking over to the sink and placing it under the faucet. Then he walks to where Bond is lifting his shoe from an again unconscious Mr. Miguel, 'No, Bond, not 'of course'.' 

He attempts to run his hand through his hair, and gets stuck in a knot, which annoys him further, 'I can simply block the signal. There is no need for—' 

He throws his hands out to indicate Bond's…whatever it is Bond plans to do.  

Bond leans back on the balls of his feet, almost stretching, though his hands remain in his pockets, 'But you can't block a moving target.' 

'—easily!' Q twitches, an instant retort, and then frowns at Bond, who's smirking at him again, 'But Mr. Miguel is not in transit.' 

'No, not this instant, but not indefinitely.' Bond says, stepping over Mr. Miguel, into Q's personal space, before Q tilts away, and Bond walks past him to the sink, but not before Q catches an understated whiff of gun powder and tropical sun. The sink begins to run, 'Are you fairly certain you don't have something to cover the floor under Mr. Miguel; anything will do, really.' 

'Were you always going to move him after extracting the tracker.' Q asks instead, mind already prodding at what he remembers he has stuffed in his building room. 

Bond looks up from the bowl he is lifting from the sink, blue eyes uncharacteristically wide in surprise, most likely to divert from the seriousness of Bond's answer, 'I would not leave an enemy of London near our Quartermaster.' 

Bond and his games; Q is not a mark and refuses to fall for them. 

Q kneads his temple with one hand, glasses going lopsided, eyes closed for a moment, and gives Bond a subdued, 'Alright, I may have an old afghan in my building room. One moment, please.' 

He's knackered, and the rush of adrenaline that had jolted him awake is all but gone and diminished, and as he slowly makes his way through the small kitchen to the short hallway, with two picture frames and window facing a fire escape towards the end, he leans on the door to left. He scratches tiredly at the door and it creaks against him, but refuses to open before he grumbles and attempts to turn the knob while still leaning on the door.    
Eventually after ineffectually tugging at the knob, he leans off and his attempts are a success as the door swings open into his building room, full of computer bits and rolls of wires.  He blinks hazily into the dark room, scratching at his side, and shuffles in, stray pieces of things hitting his feet and rolling away, before he reaches the corner closet.  

It doesn't take long to pull open the door, this time, and the filthy afghan is bundled up on the second lowest shelf. He grimaces at the afghan, before he crouches and pulls and tugs the thing out. It floofs up in his arms, a most unconfined place in comparison to the shelf. He attempts to rise, and does, not without his vision greying out, and low dizzying sensations taking root in his head. He blinks open eyes and the grey is gone, but the odd sense of standing outside his body and yet still feeling the dizziness and sideways room makes him frown. He appears to be quite literally, dead on his feet. 

Returning to the kitchen, Q after a puzzled moment of a sleep deprived brain, spots Bond kneeling by Mr. Miguel, and running fingers slowly up Mr. Miguel's arm— who's sleeve is torn up to the shoulder.   
'...Bond.' Q says, shuffling over to him, 'What are you doing with my mobile.' 

In Bond's other hand is Q's very own mobile, and Bond appears to be greatly interested in what he is doing. On Q's mobile.  

Bond glances up, a flash of blue eyes, before he looks back down at Q's mobile, 'Ah, nothing so important, Q.' 

The bastard isn't a bit ashamed to have been caught, as he clicks it off and sets it on the floor besides himself. Q tries to restart his brain functions into thinking when Bond could have possibly stolen the thing, and comes up utterly deficient.  

Q resolves to void at least… sevent… almost all of Bond's overseas credit cards, 'Here, I've gotten this.' 

He holds out the filthy afghan, and Bond looks from him to it, and his brow raises, 'Mind laying it out with me?' 

Q huffs, 'Preferably not, I fear I may kilt over at any sudden movement; and nevertheless, you are able enough to do it yourself.' 

Bond is stood after the first part of his sentence, eyes keen on him; although, q does not know why, and stubbornly pushes the afghan into bond's chest. Bond gets the point after a bit, and encircles the afghan, as well as Q. Q sort of freezes at the contact, eyes jerking up to Bond's, feeling the warmth of his arms cradling Q, and the stillness and weight of Bond's hands over his hips. 

'Feeling off, Quartermaster?' Bond shifts, and Q feels his arms shift around him, the afghan pushing and turning between them. Q’s cold fingers are rubbing up against Bond's solid stomach through his vest, and he squeezes them into the afghan, almost certain that Bond feels the movement, when Bond tips his head somewhat at the same moment. 

'I imagine so, on less than three hours of sleep.' Q says trying for a bit of snit, but with Bond's hands still on his hips, and the negative personal space this entails, he doesn't quite reach it. 

This time when Bond barely reacts, Q feels the vibration of a silent hum rumble outward from him, bit like a large cat, actually, and he still hasn't removed himself from Q. 

He's just about to step on Bond's shoe when, Bond, 'Alright, then, dear Quartermaster, I shall do this strenuous labor, and you shall… do was you will.' 

Strenuous labor his arse, he thinks as Bond moves around him, sliding the afghan to hang over his arm, and steering Q back to the table, a hand resting on his far hip and the other a spot of heat at his upper arm. 

'Bond, I do believe you are treating me as a child.' Q says, as they reach the chair and Q's abandoned mug of lukewarm tea. Q frowns at the cold tea. 

'Nonsense, as you said yourself, you shouldn't be up and about.' Bond responds, hands drifting as Q is sat firmly in the chair. 

'A child.' Q is stubborn, and blinks sluggishly when a thumb caresses under his eye, and, oh, Bond's hand is cradling Q's head, fingers tangling in his hair. 'Hey, those are my glasses.' 

'And I am taking them off and placing them on the table in front of you, Q.' Q squints as his glasses are lifted, hand reaching to follow them, a tad clumsy given how absolutely tired he is, and Bond's warm hand closes around it, then leads his hand in another direction until he feels the rims of his glasses, 'Wouldn't want them to fall as you sleep.' 

His voice is low near Q's ear, and Q leans over, hand still caught up with James' hand, and finds the hard warmth of James' chest, at the right height for him to bump his head against James' shoulder, and rest against James' nape. He blinks, maybe for a long time his eyes are closed, then reminds himself to open them, and feels the rise and fall of James' breathing, feels the skin of James' neck against his forehead. 

'… I shan't… sleep in the… kitche…' the rest of his proclamation lost, as is the nonvocal answering hum of James. 

 ---

Q comes to with a motionless start at his kitchen table, slumped in one of his kitchen chairs. He blinks, stares down at his hands in his lap. He imagines there must be a charitable reason why he is not asleep in his bed. Then he actually does start, as his chair creaks, and his head comes up, thumping against something subtly soft. Which is when he turns and sees James Bond leaning over the back of his chair, face right next to his. 

Bond's eye swivels to him, before the rest of his head follows, and he leans further over Q's chair, 'Better, Quartermaster?' 

Q blinks at him, he can feel the curve of Bond's shoulders around him, and the dangling arm over the other side of his chair, 'Better?' 

Bond grins with sealed lips, titling his head, as he lifts his chin in indication, 'You were all out of sorts early this morning.' 

Q follows the direction of his indication and starts thrice, as he faces a— Mr. Miguel is wide awake, bleeding from his shoulder, and bound and gagged to the only other chair in his kitchen. His glaring could very well physically manifest daggers, and Q slumps back into his chair, resting against it and Bond's shoulder, warm through his suit. 

'I do hope you took pains to not stain my floor?' 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this was actually only supposed to 1.5k at the longest, and this was also my first 00q fic s o. srry if this is totally ooc hell. it should be known tho that this was written w an ace biromantic bond in mind, and also since i rly wanted to write 00q But didn't have any ideas i used sm of [these](http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/108022477839/ridiculous-sentence-prompts) prompts for the fic


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